


Girl Named Tennessee

by searchingwardrobes



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/M, One Night Stands, Song Lyrics, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/pseuds/searchingwardrobes
Summary: The pretty brunette and the gorgeous blonde at the bar introduce themselves as “Georgia” and “Tennessee.” Naval officers David Noland and Killian Jones know full well those aren’t their real names. But its 1942, and they ship out tomorrow, so does it really matter?





	Girl Named Tennessee

**Author's Note:**

> *This story is based on the song of the same name by needtobreathe. I went back and forth on whether or not to include the lyrics, but I finally decided it's a song that you really just have to listen to. Not that you have to listen to it to enjoy this story, however. I actually used lines from the song within the fic. Though this got way more angsty than the song.   
> *Many thanks to courtorderedcake, distant_rose, shireness-says, and kmomof4 for encouraging me to go ahead and write the thing.

              Killian Jones isn’t the marrying kind. At least not the kind of sailor who falls in love overnight and ships out the next morning with a bride waving goodbye from shore. It’s a common tale in 1942, just not for him. David, however, is a different story. So to prevent his best friend from doing something crazy, Killian finds a bar where the girls will most assuredly not be the marrying kind either.

              Of course, neither is Killian Jones the honky-tonk kind. But this is Charleston, after all. And a place called the Wildhorse Saloon is sure to provide the type of night two navy men need before shipping out on the _USS Beatty_. In the not-to-distant future, they will have to worry about German U-boats and fighter bombers, but not tonight. Tonight they’ll drink too much liquor and dance with too many pretty girls.

              The honky-tonk is just as dark and smoky as Killian had imagined, with the requisite sawdust on the floor. But the bar is well stocked, and a man can still jive or lindy hop to hillbilly music.

              “I think we’re the only ones who aren’t wearing cowboy boots,” David yells in his ear over the music. He glances around nervously as he runs his hand over the front of his dress uniform. Killian laughs as he claps his friend on the back. He’s such a boy scout.

              “The uniform is for the ladies, Dave,” Killian says, “and believe me, it will get us a lot farther than a pair of boots.”

              Killian’s words are proven true before they’ve had time to really throw back any liquor. The only two men in the place in uniform makes them popular on the dance floor. One girl seems to blur into the next as Killian dances and drinks.

              Until the one with the red boots saunters up to the bar.

              Actually, red seems to be her signature color. From the boots to the red polka dot dress with the sweetheart neckline that shows off her assets to full affect. Her skirt is a bit short to accommodate the boots, but full enough for dancing. The golden blonde hair tumbling down her back in large curls shines against all the red. Killian may have abandoned someone on the dance floor to go talk to her. He isn’t sure. Everything goes hazy as soon as the blonde catches his eye.

              “What are you drinking?” Not the most original opening, he has to admit. But the blonde turns to him with a smile nonetheless. Her curls bounce against her shoulders and her jade green eyes sparkle. She bites her lower lip and twirls a lock of her hair around her finger before answering. His eyes are drawn to the blood red lipstick against her perfectly white teeth.

              “Whiskey, of course, what else?” she answers in a southern accent as smooth as honey. Killian has to admit the way the girls talk here in Charleston has a way of getting him hot and bothered. But none as much as this lass.

              “Well,” Killian replies in the same flirtatious tone as he inches a bit closer to her, “I was relieved to see they serve rum.” Not taking his eyes from hers, he tells the bartender, “Another whiskey for the lady.”

              “Rum, huh?” the blonde asks, leaning her elbows on the bar so he has a tantalizing peek down the front of her dress. “You’re not from around here, are you sailor?”

              “Hmm, no. Born in London, actually.”

              Suddenly, a brunette in a bright blue dress falls against the blonde’s shoulder. Her hair is also curled as is the current fashion, though it’s a bit shorter than her friends’, barely brushing her shoulders. And the brunette’s wide eyes and girlish face are far more innocent than that of her friend in red. The red ribbon tied in her hair makes her seem even more so.

              “That bathroom,” the brunette drawls, waving her hand in front of her face, “I mean, I _never_ -“

              “Are you going to introduce me to these two beautiful ladies?”

              While the blonde’s gaze had revealed a small spark of interest when she saw Killian, the brunette almost falls at David’s feet, her jaw hanging open. She literally loses her balance, and David reaches down immediately to steady her. The way they gaze into each other’s eyes has the blonde glancing at Killian with a slight roll of her eyes. Killian chuckles.

              “I’m not used to these cowboy boots,” the brunette laughs as she rights herself. She gestures down to her short blue suede boots, a blush staining her cheeks. David doesn’t release her arm.

              “This is my friend Georgia,” the blonde speaks up, “and I’m . . . Tennessee.”

              If the blonde’s pause doesn’t give away the fact that those are fake names, the brunette – Georgia – does with her bumbling agreement.

              “Uh, yes, Georgia. That’s me! A real peach.”

              David seems to find her charming nonetheless and laughs at her pitiful joke. “I’m David, and this is Killian,” he tells her, gesturing first to himself and then to his best friend.

Then he gallantly asks Georgia to dance, which she accepts with a giggle. Killian turns to the blonde – Tennessee – and tilts his head towards the dance floor. But she sidles up closer, running her red manicured nails up his arm to drape them over his shoulder.

              “It’s a slow song,” she pouts, “let’s wait for something faster.”

              The way she says it makes it sound lurid. He grins at her and gestures for more rum.

              “So, London huh?” she asks as she takes a swig of whiskey.

“Aye. I came over here as a young teen. My father was one of the few who listened to Churchill from the start. Sent me over for my safety. My brother Liam would have come too if he hadn’t lied about his age and headed off to France,” Killian frowns as he stares down into his tumbler of rum. He bites out his next words and follows them with a swallow of liquor, “and in France he’ll stay. Forever.”

Tennessee’s face falls at his brief explanation. “I’m so sorry. And your dad?”

“Killed two years ago in the Blitz.” Killian waves his hand vaguely in the air, relieved that an up-tempo song is being cranked out by the band. “But we’re not here to share tragic stories of this infernal war,” he grabs her hand and helps her off her stool, “we’re here to dance.”

Tennessee smiles as he pulls her towards the dance floor, but she stops for a moment and tugs back. “One last question first,” she says, “why are you suited up for Uncle Sam and not Union Jack?”

Killian simply inclines his head to where David is spinning Georgia on the dance floor. “Not all brothers are blood.”

And with that simple explanation, he pulls Tennessee flush against him. The heavy powder on her face can’t conceal the sudden blush to her cheeks or the smattering of freckles he can now see across the bridge of her nose. He swings her out, then back in again, and the jive is in full swing.

He dances with Tennessee the rest of the night. He holds nothing back, swinging her and lifting her up until the crinoline under her skirt is hiked up to her waist. She laughs, her nose crinkling adorably. The sound of it sends a pleasant rumbling straight through him, like thunder on a humid southern day. They’re both sweaty and breathless when another slow song finally plays, and Tennessee no longer minds. Their breaths seem to slow in unison as he holds her close, burying his nose in her hair.

“I’ll never dance like this again,” he whispers into the golden curls that smell like a Georgia summer. Like peaches and magnolia blossoms.

              **********************************************************

Killian isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or this girl named Tennessee, but the lights seem to fade and sway, and he doesn’t even know where David has got off to. It’s suddenly oppressively hot in the honky-tonk and he and Tennessee stumble out into the sticky spring night air of Charleston. But at least there’s a slight breeze and the air is fresh.

They stumble into one another, and then Killian’s left hand is at her waist and his right is buried in her hair. His lips are on hers, and it’s hungry and almost desperate. She pulls him into an alley way and backs herself into a wall, tilting her head back so he can nip at her neck and drag his tongue along the edge of her neckline.

How they get to the hotel down the street is a blur, too. He barely registers fishing the bills out of his pocket to pay for the room or the smirk that the guy behind the counter gives him as he takes in the buttons half undone on Killian’s dress uniform and the smears of red lipstick across his face. What isn’t a blur is her. Everything about _her_ is vividly clear. The feel of her petal soft skin beneath his fingertips, the taste of her sweat on his tongue, the sight of her hair flowing across the sheets like a river of molten gold, and the sound of his name falling from her lips in that sweet southern drawl as she comes undone. Everything about her heightens his senses and makes an imprint on his soul.

He’s never the same after Tennessee.

              *******************************************************

 

He wakes up to the sight of her bare back as she sits up to hook her bra, her hair a curtain over her shoulder. He smiles lazily, his head thudding only slightly from his hangover. He reaches out and traces his fingers lightly down her spine.

“Come back to bed.”

She grins at him as she stands and shimmies into her dress. Her curls have fallen into bedraggled things that fall into her face and her mascara has smudged under her eyes. Basically, he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Aren’t you shipping out today?”

He grabs his watch from the nightstand and squints at it for a minute. “Not for a few hours,” he tells her and starts to push back the covers.

“No, don’t get up,” she tells him quickly.

Before he can feel disappointed, she straddles him, passionately kisses him, then presses something into his palm. He’s dazed for a moment before he realizes she’s heading for the door.

“Wait,” he calls out after her, “I didn’t catch your name . . . not your real one anyway.”

“I didn’t say,” she replies with a smirk before closing the door.

In his palm is a photograph of her, and scrawled across the bottom in pen is simply, “Tennessee.”

              ****************************************************

_Dear “Tennessee,”_

_I hope you don’t mind my sending a letter through Mary Margaret via David. But obviously “Tennessee” isn’t enough for the US postal service. I mean that humorously, of course. I don’t blame you for withholding details of your life from me. After all, many a cad has used a lass for nothing more than one night of pleasure before heading into the thick of battle. But I assure you that it was much more for me. That is why I write to you. This war consists of long, lonely days at sea punctuated by sheer hell on earth. It is memories of you that make it bearable. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you. And not just of your soft skin and intoxicating kisses. I remember your voice and your smile, and above all, that deep connection between us. Please tell me you felt it too. I watch David as he reads Mary Margaret’s letters. The smile that lights his face. The way his fingers gently trace each word. The way those pages are held close night after night until they almost fall apart. He’s found love, and if he and Mary Margaret have found that after just one night, why not us?_

_I’m not asking for declarations or promises. All I ask is a name. An address. Perhaps letters exchanged so that the tender look on David’s face may be upon mine as well. Or at the very least words of friendship to ground me in the long and lonely nights._

_Yours always,_

_Killian Jones_

                            *******************************************************

              “This was in my last letter from Mary Margaret,” David tells him. He tosses it onto Killian’s lap.

              Killian tilts his head up to see better as he rips into it; it’s the best he can do in this narrow bunk. He tucks one arm behind his head to make the awkward position slightly more bearable as he reads.

_Dear Killian,_

_This letter is very difficult for me to write. I never meant to make you feel for me so deeply. God, I feel like the scum of the earth. The world is falling apart, and for one night, I just wanted to be young and reckless. I can’t imagine what you are enduring out there at sea. I wish I could ease your pain, but I can’t. If I wrote you, it would only burden you. I would hate myself forever if I became a distraction that cost you your life. Just trust me when I say that forgetting me is the best thing you could do._

  * __The Girl from Tennessee__



 

The pain and disappointment Killian feels is immediate. He drops the letter to the floor as he covers his face with his hand. He massages his eyes with his finger tips to try and keep the tears at bay. David picks the letter up and lifts his brows in question.

“Go ahead,” Killian sighs, “read it.”

David does, then refolds it as he gives his best friend a sympathetic look. But as usual, David can’t help attempting to find at least a little hope. “At least now you know she’s from Tennessee.”

Killian scowls. “How does that help me Dave? I don’t think the postal service can work with _The most beautiful girl in the state of Tennessee, USA_.”

David grins and slaps him on the knee. “It’s worth a shot,” he jokes.

Killian covers his face with his hand again and groans. Sadly, it’s not such a crazy idea. It isn’t as if he has anyone else to write to.

              *******************************************************

_Dear Mary Margaret,_

_I can’t tell you how much your letters mean to me. And no, it isn’t silly to tell me about the rude customers at the peach stand or the antics of your father’s dog. Normal, everyday things like that remind me why this fight is worth it. When this war ends, and all us boys come home, you won’t have to work your dad’s farm anymore. You can go back to school and become the amazing teacher I know you can be._

_Because things were bad yesterday, MM, really bad. I write this from the USS Parker. Our ship went down last night, attacked by both u-boats and fighter bombers. Don’t worry, I’m okay. I wasn’t wounded. Many others weren’t so lucky. Some were hit by shrapnel from the bombs, some were hit with machine gun fire, and some simply drowned after being tossed overboard. ~~But the worst was the engineer I saw writhing and screaming, burned by steam when the boiler room exploded.~~_

_I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk to you about such things. You need only know about that beautiful Georgia farm where your biggest worry is rude customers. The only thing I feel I need tell you is about Killian. He was injured. I just thought you might like to let your friend know, the one who calls herself Tennessee? Because he’s coming home . . ._

              ***************************************************

Killian’s jaw clenches and he averts his eyes as David walks into the med bay. It isn’t that he’s jealous that his best friend is still whole. Not at all. His best friend could be in pieces at the bottom of the ocean. So no, he isn’t jealous.

He just knows David will try and be positive, and he just isn’t in the mood.

“I hear you’ll be home by spring,” is the first thing out of his friend’s mouth.

Killian sighs as he turns to look at him. “Yeah, once they teach me how to use that bloody _hook_ ,” he bites out.

“It’s a prosthetic, Killian.”

“Whatever,” Killian mutters, his jaw clenching again.

“But at least you get to go home.”

“Home?” Killian bites out. “Last time I checked, I don’t have a home. I’d rather be here, fighting beside my brothers.”

David sighs as he sits gingerly on the edge of Killian’s cot. “You do have a home. My mother’s written you about it, I know she has.”

Killian picks at the government-issue sheets across his lap. “Yes, Ruth Nolan has extended her sympathy offer.”

David scowls openly at him now as he crosses his arms across his chest. “Sympathy? You think that’s why my mother has written to you regularly?”

“Pretty much yes, seeing as they were the only letters I ever got.”

David chooses to ignore his self-deprecation and instead reaches for the photograph resting on the tray by Killian’s bed. It’s wrinkled from constant use, and after the sinking of the _Beatty_ , it’s also got water stains around the edges. Without looking up from the picture of the smiling, gorgeous blonde, David speaks hesitantly.

“I wrote to Mary Margaret. She says if you come by to see her, she’ll tell you . . . about . . . her. She made no promises, but I think . . . I think you could find her. Tennessee.”

Killian’s gaze goes unwillingly to the bandaged stump at the end of his left arm. “How can I do that now? Now that I’m only half a man?”

David actually chuckles at that, to Killian’s complete surprise. He slaps his friend on the shoulder.

“Last time I checked, it was just a hand. That’s hardly half of you.”

Unbelievably, it gets Killian to laugh too. Everyone has been so damn serious, it’s almost a relief to joke about it. He takes the photograph from David and gazes at it a long time.

“If your gut is right, and she’s really the one,” David finally says softly, “it won’t matter to her, either.”

              **************************************************

The peach stand for the Blanchard family farm is right along the highway in Camilla, Georgia, just down the road from the bus stop. The land for miles around is flat here in the southern part of the state, and the humidity causes a shimmer along the asphalt, even in late April. Killian’s already sweating in his navy dress uniform when he reaches the quaint clapboard stand. Mary Margaret looks just as sweet and wholesome as he had remembered, smiling as she sells a bushel of peaches to a family of highway travelers. She’s dressed in a simple pink shirt dress and her dark brown hair is tied in a low ponytail with a white ribbon. As he approaches, Killian thinks how much David would love to see her this way.

She seems him approaching, and with a gasp abandons the stand to run to him, throwing her arms around him. Her hug catches Killian completely off guard. He drops his duffel and pats at her back awkwardly.

“Oh Killian,” she says, fanning her face with one hand as tears well in her eyes, “I was so worried about you when David wrote. I am so glad you’re okay.”

He can’t help but smile, especially hearing that southern accent again. It takes him back two years to warm memories and a simpler time.

Mary Margaret continues her chatter as she loops her arm through his and steers him towards the peach stand. “I am _so_ sorry I didn’t write. David asked me to, you know, but Emma – well, she said I can’t keep a secret, so –“

“Wait,” Killian stopped in his tracks, his blood pounding in his ears, “that’s her name? Emma?”

Mary Margaret nods somberly for a moment, her hand pressed to her mouth. Then she softly replies, “Yes, it is. Emma Swan.”

“Emma Swan,” he repeats in awe, “it’s – a beautiful name.”

And it suits her, he thinks. He has a name, and a state. It would take a lot of digging and a lot of time, but he could find her. He’d move heaven and earth if he had to. Of course, it would be so much easier if Mary Margaret just helps him.

“Please,” he begs the brunette, “tell me where to find her.”

Mary Margaret looks at him for what feels like forever. “I will. But Killian, before you go to her, there’s something you need to know . . . “

              ******************************************************

Swan Stables, the horse farm in Tennessee owned by Emma’s family, is way off the beaten path. Killian has to walk a significant way from the bus station down dusty dirt roads. But at least the spring sunshine in Tennessee is less oppressive and humid than in Georgia. As he walks, he admires the green pastures and the stands of trees waving in the spring breeze. He wonders if coming back here had been Emma’s original plan. It certainly hadn’t been her plan to leave the University of Georgia before graduating.

No, she had him to thank for that.

When he finally reaches the quaint blue farm house, he leaves his duffel by the front porch steps. With a deep breath and a nervous straightening of his tie, he knocks on the front door. The woman who opens it is in her forties and wears a tight smile which becomes even tighter when she sees Killian standing there.

“May I help you?” she drawls in a high, light voice that is in stark contrast with the fiery chill in her eyes.

Killian clears his throat nervously. “Excuse me, madam, but my name is Kil-“

“Killian Jones,” she finishes for him dryly, “I was wondering when you’d show up.”

He gapes at her a moment, then adds, “I’d like to call on Emma. If I may.”

“Course you do,” she mutters, and it’s clear as day that she already hates him, “I’m Emma’s mother, Ingrid. She’s not here. She’s out at the stables.”

Killian fidgets nervously with his tie again. Mrs. Swan eyes his uniform up and down, her gaze landing on his metal prosthetic. He wrestled with whether or not to wear it. On the one hand – pun completely intended – it’s useful for a million and one different things. On the other, he had already found that most people found it more unsettling than his stump.

Not that anyone was completely comfortable with that, either.

“Do you think I might wait for her?” he finally chokes out.

Mrs. Swan sighs deeply as she lets the door swing open completely. “I suppose. Come on in.”

Killian follows her into the foyer. A staircase is right in front of the door leading to the second floor. He glances up the walls for photographs, but finds none. He peeks to his right into a living room and sees only one photograph: of three little girls, two blonde, and one redhead. In the corner by the fireplace is a wooden rocking horse and a set of wooden blocks.

“This way,” Ingrid calls, and Killian jumps as if she’s caught him sneaking around. He follows her through a formal dining room and into a bright yellow kitchen. He admonishes himself for being so nervous around Emma’s mother. He’s fought in a war, for God’s sake!

“You thirsty?” she asks him. “I’ve got iced tea and lemonade in the ice box.”

Killian licks his lips, suddenly feeling the dust from the road clogging his throat. “Aye, Mrs. Swan, lemonade sounds lovely, thank you.”

“So genteel,” she chuckles as she leans into the icebox. From her tone, he can’t tell if it’s a compliment or an insult.

She motions for him to sit at the kitchen table as she sets the glass down in front of him. After taking a large swallow, he says, “You knew my name. Has Emma mentioned me?”

“I haven’t been able to get a word out of her ‘bout you,” Ingrid replies as she turns to put the pitcher of lemonade back in the ice box. Her next words are spoken almost under her breath as she turns, and he almost misses them, “but your name was on the birth certificate.” She continues to mutter as she bends to put the pitcher inside. “Told her it was a damn fool thing to do, but she was stubborn, saying one day Henry would want to know who his daddy was.”

“H-henry? His name is Henry?” A good, strong name, one he’s already proud of.

Mrs. Swan straightens and closes the icebox door. “If that’s who you were looking for when you first came in, he’s out at the stables with Emma. Foul was born last night and Emma wanted him to see it.”

Killian just nods as he finishes his lemonade, too many thoughts swirling through his mind. Ingrid keeps eyeing him with sparks in her eyes, but he’s too full of battling emotions to care. Finally the woman stands to her full height, her hands on her hips, having evidently decided on something. Killian thinks that she looks a lot like an admiral about to command his sailors.

“I got something to say, young man. Emma and her twin sister Elsa were only three, their little sister Anna only a baby when their daddy up and left us. No one thought I could keep this farm going. Not because of the depression or because I had three little girls, but just because I was a woman. But I proved them all wrong. And I raised my girls to know one thing for certain: they didn’t need a man to take care of them. So if you’re here because you think Henry and Emma need you to–“

“Mama!”

The sound of Emma’s voice startles both Ingrid and Killian. Ingrid whirls towards her daughter who stands glowering at her in the doorway. Killian’s head jerks towards the sound, and he can’t decide where to look: at the gorgeous blonde who’s haunted his dreams for the past two years, or the little boy balanced on her hip. Emma’s signature color still seems to be red, evidenced in the red plaid shirt beneath her denim overalls and the tattered, faded red ribbon in her hair which is gathered up in a messy, high ponytail. Unlike that night at the honky-tonk, her face is completely lacking makeup, allowing him to clearly see the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the delightful pink of her cheeks.

She’s even more beautiful than he had remembered.

But then there’s the child in her arms. He has his mother’s chin and nose, but his blue eyes and his mop of dark hair are the exact same shade as Killian’s. The child blinks as he gazes at the strange man in his kitchen for a moment, then pops his thumb in his mouth.

“Emma –“ Ingrid begins.

“No, Mama,” Emma interrupts, “I want to speak with him alone.”

Emma’s mother nods her consent, then goes as if to take Henry. Emma pivots away with a stern expression on her face then bends her head to whisper to Mrs. Swan. The two women seem to have a brief argument that Killian can only assume is about him, but in the end, Ingrid leaves without her grandson, leveling a warning glare at Killian before she walks outside. The screen door bangs loudly behind her.

Once she’s gone, Killian stands nervously. Emma’s gaze travels softly over him, landing on his left arm. She opens her mouth in a silent gasp and rushes forward, reaching out to touch his arm tentatively.

“Oh, Killian,” she breathes, “Mary Margaret said you were injured, but she didn’t say . . . I’m so sorry.”

Tears gather in her eyes, and he nods, knowing her concern is genuine. He swallows past the lump that seems to be permanently lodged in his throat and gestures with his hand towards the child in her arms.

“So this is Henry,” he says, for lack of anything better, “how um, how old is he?”

Emma smiles with adoration down at the boy, brushing a kiss atop his head, “He was one this past January.”

Killian nods. If the eye and hair color aren’t dead giveaways of the boy’s parentage, the math is. His gaze travels over Emma’s face, and he realizes that she isn’t shocked to see him. Mary Margaret must have warned her.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he manages to get out in a strangled voice.

Emma blinks rapidly, then seems to swallow down her emotions. “And have you distracted and worried? It could have gotten you killed.”

Her letter all those months ago suddenly makes sense now. He runs a hand down his face, unsure what to say. Emma presses her lips together, then opens her mouth, then shuts it again. Henry pulls his thumb out of his mouth to let out a huge yawn, then nestles his head against Emma’s neck.

“It’s his nap time,” Emma explains, changing the subject. “Do you want to come upstairs and help me put him down?”

Killian blinks rapidly, then gives his head a quick shake. “Yes. Are – are you sure?”

Emma gives him a slightly teasing smile, “Of course. He’s your son.”

_He’s your son_. The words have him almost elated as he follows Emma up the staircase. He follows her into a small bedroom that she evidently shares with Henry because there’s a double bed against one wall and a crib in the corner. Beneath the window is a small changing table, and Emma heads for it first and gently lays Henry down.

“I can smell his dirty diaper,” Emma explains with a smirk, “so this will be your first parenting test.”

Emma cleans Henry up as she chats with him, making the boy giggle. She rolls the dirty cloth in on itself and hands it to Killian with a slightly mischievous expression on her face.

“Would you mind rinsing this out in the bathroom and leaving it to soak in the tub?”

He does as she asks, chuckling to himself once he’s in the bathroom across the hall. If she thinks this will prove too much for him, she’s in for a surprise. Little does she know the disgusting chores sometimes needed on a naval ship. Killian washes up after he finishes the task and heads back into the bedroom. Emma has a fresh diaper on the child that she holds with one hand as Henry kicks his little legs.

“I forgot the pins,” she tells him, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face, “they’re in the little basket up there on that high shelf. And get his bear too while you’re at it.”

Killian finds the basket and bear right where she said they were. He collects two diaper pins and the bear and heads for the changing table.

“Thanks, the bear is just for sleeping, so I have to keep it out of reach until time for bed,” she explains, then turns to tickle Henry. “Isn’t that right?”

The boy laughs at his mother, and while she pins the diaper closed, Killian distracts Henry with the bear. The sight of the boy’s little gummy smiles directed right at him causes Killian’s heart to swell.

“You’re supposed to be calming him down,” Emma scolds teasingly.

“Oh, sorry,” Killian mutters, blushing a deep red. He hands Henry the bear, and the boy grabs it tight, smooshing it against his chubby cheeks.

Emma lifts Henry and plants a single kiss to his cheek before laying him down in the crib. She rubs his tummy and sings a soft lullaby. That’s all it takes for the child’s eyes to flutter closed in sleep. Emma tiptoes out of the room, and Killian follows.

“That was easy,” Killian remarks once they’re in the hallway.

Emma rolls her eyes as she leans against the door. “Not always. He was just tired out today from being in the stables.”

Killian nods and scratches nervously behind his ear. Emma eyes him nervously too, nibbling on her lower lip. Killian takes a deep breath and decides to speak first.

“Emma, I want you to know that I’m not here out of mere duty. You’re a tough lass, and I-“

Emma lifts her hand to silence him. “Don’t pay any attention to my mama. She hasn’t trusted a man since my daddy left. Besides that, she’s stressed. We all are.”

Killian’s brow furrows in concern. “About the baby? Because if I had known –“

Emma shakes her head quickly, “No, it’s my sister Elsa. She’s in North Africa as an army nurse. And my little sister is a mess worrying about her fiancé. He’s a marine in the South Pacific.”

Killian nods in understanding. “The war has taken from everyone’s families. It’s like you said in that letter, the world seems to be falling apart.”

Emma’s eyes widen as her gaze searches his face, “Killian, you have to understand. Boys were enlisting so fast, UGA had practically turned into a girl’s college. So Mary Margaret and I headed to Charleston for spring break. I just wanted to feel what it was like to be that close to someone. Just in case I never got the chance.”

Killian closes his eyes tightly and nods. He’s pretty sure he knows what she’s trying to say. “But you didn’t plan on Henry.”

“No,” Emma corrects him softly, “I didn’t plan on _you_.”

Killian opens his eyes, but keeps them trained on the floor. He thinks of his letter and how desperate it probably sounded to her. And now here he is, dressed like the delusional sailor, pushing in where he isn’t wanted.

“And you didn’t plan on this, I’m sure,” Killian says bitterly, gesturing with his prosthetic. “I see the way people look at me. Like I’m half a man at best, a monster at worst. I can’t expect you not to be ashamed that I’m Henry’s father.”

“Ashamed,” Emma exclaims as she grabs his prosthetic and presses it to her chest. The gesture shocks him and causes him to lift his head to look her in the eye. He doesn’t see a bit of hesitation in her face. “This,” she continues, giving his “hook” a slight shake, “is something for you to be proud of. And when other people see you, the only thing they have a right to feel is gratitude. That you risked everything and gave so much, so they could be free.”

She’s almost angry in her conviction, and it brings a half smile to his lips. He lifts his good hand to brush at the tendrils of golden hair around her face. “I thought when I left the navy that I would find you and win your heart. But I would never try to take it. You don’t feel the same way I do, Emma, and that’s okay. I still want to be part of Henry’s life, but I understand that you don’t –“

Emma stops him with a hand to his mouth. “No, Killian,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek. Despite his resolve to let her go, he brushes his thumb across her cheek to wipe it away. “I’m afraid you _don’t_ understand.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the look of confusion on his face. Then she drops his left arm to grab the labels of his dress jacket and yank him forward. He lets out a surprised yelp when she crashes her lips into his, but then he kisses her back with equal fervor. His left arm wraps around her waist to pull her closer, and his right hand shifts to thread through her ponytail. When Emma finally pulls away, he chases her lips, his face flushed with the sudden passion of it all.

“That was –“ he starts to say.

“what I was trying to say,” Emma finishes for him, and they both laugh as they press their foreheads together. “I’ve never been good with words.”

Killian just nods before kissing her again thoroughly. Emma smiles against his lips.

“I thought my dreams had exaggerated your kissing,” she tells him, “but I was wrong. They didn’t do it justice.”

Killian cups her face with his hand, dragging his thumb across her wet and swollen lips. “See, you can do pretty well with words.”

She just shakes her head and yanks him into the nearest empty bedroom to remind him how insufficient _his_ dreams had been.

_Dear David,_

_Things are going well here in Tennessee. Emma’s sister Anna was easy to win over; she’s pretty much everyone’s instant best friend. Ingrid, on the other hand, has taken a bit more time, but she’s beginning to thaw towards me. I’m writing to Elsa to try and warm her up ahead of time. We’ll see how that goes; she and Emma are twins, after all._

_Ingrid was also hesitant about letting me work at the stables. But despite her seemingly frigid personality, she has a heart. No one would hire me with only one hand, which seemed to piss her off, honestly. Now she actually begrudgingly admits that I’m good with the horses._

_Henry is the absolute cutest little guy you’ve ever seen. (Of course, he takes after me!) He’s smart as a whip, too, though I know I’m biased. (And listen to me picking up some Tennessee expressions!) In all seriousness, he called me “Dada,” yesterday, and I have never heard such a wonderful word in my life._

_Which brings me to the bad news. I’m beating you to the altar, mate. The justice of the peace is coming over tomorrow afternoon, and Emma’s bought a brand new dress. We wanted red, but Ingrid almost had a heart attack. We compromised and Emma got pink instead. It’s so beautiful on her. (Don’t tell Ingrid that I’ve already seen her in it, she’ll kill me.) Mary Margaret is driving up, of course. We hate that you and Elsa won’t be here, but it’s just a basic ceremony in the farmhouse living room. We’ll have a big bash when the war ends, how about that?_

_I’ll buy you a pair of boots. After all, this is Tennessee._

_Your friend,_

_Killian Jones_


End file.
